


Suptober Day 4: Branded

by tiamatv



Series: Promptober 2020 [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Destiel Promptober 2020 (Supernatural), Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiamatv/pseuds/tiamatv
Summary: Sometimes Dean thinks that everyone can see his scars.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Promptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1954990
Comments: 20
Kudos: 135





	Suptober Day 4: Branded

**Author's Note:**

> As all these things will probably be this month, unbetaed--if you catch any typos, please let me know and I'm happy to fix them!

Sometimes Dean thinks that everyone can see his scars.

It’s not the scars on his skin that Dean’s thinking of. He’s had those since he was a kid; he’s made up so many stories about them, because the real stories are the ones that no-one’s ever gonna believe.

(Or, worse, they _will_.)

But sometimes he looks around him and he doesn’t know how everyone can’t see what he did in Hell. He looks down and the blood on his hands isn’t vampire or werewolf or Rougarou, it’s Henricksen’s. It’s Jo’s and Ash’s and Ellen’s. It’s Benny’s. It’s Kevin’s. It’s not the people that they couldn’t save, it’s the people that he knows would still be alive today if they hadn’t been his friends.

And then there’s Cas.

There’s the Angel of the Lord came to get Dean in Hell, pulling him out of Perdition, and in return? Dean’s dragged him down here into the muck and mud and blood with them. It’s not that Cas _can’t_ go back to Heaven, it’s that he _won’t_ , and in some ways, Dean thinks that’s worse.

In the dark, Cas nuzzles absently into the back of his neck, and Dean doesn’t shiver—he shudders. His body twists away just enough that if Cas slept, he might have even woken up.

Except Cas doesn’t sleep.

Shit.

“Dean?” he asks, in his raspy, harsh voice. In the dark, the gravel of it is like a road just made to fishtail on. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.” It’s true. Or, seeing as how no-one’s actively trying to kill Dean’s fine ass, it’s true _enough._ “Would it make any difference if I told you to go back to sleep?” Dean grumbles.

Cas sounds genuinely surprised when he asks, “Why would you bother?” and Dean lets it go.

Cas, though, won’t. “ _Dean_ ,” he says, and scootches in. He’s still naked—he never bothers putting anything back on before he settles in. Dean got in the habit even when he _did_ spend the night with his one-nighters, and old habits die hard: the feel of sheets on his naked body when he’s trying to sleep makes him feel, well, okay, _naked,_ and he almost always wiggles back into his boxers. He does it enough that if they’re on the floor, Cas goes and gets them for him when he goes to get a washcloth to clean them off.

But Cas’s knees are warm where they’re tucked, a little bony compared to the thick press of his thighs behind Dean’s. He’s warm—he’s always warm, except on hot days, when he’s not. It feels good. It feels a little too good.

“I’m fine,” Dean mumbles, and turns over just enough that his cheek is mashed into the pillow under his head and Cas isn’t molded against his back.

Dammit, now his back feels cold.

Cas snorts, but he doesn’t try to wiggle back in. Dean hears him flop onto his back and talk to the ceiling. “I’ve never known a Winchester who was actually fine when they said that.”

“Says you.”

“Yes. I just said it.” It takes a certain kind of trick to squint with your _voice_ , but Cas has got that technique really fucking down pat.

Dean’s snort in response is despair, first—then irritation, after a flash of realization. “Nice try. You _know_ what that expression means, Cas.”

“Of course, but since I _do_ , in fact, say it, the expression still applies,” Cas sniffs.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean mutters, and tries to wipe his sweaty hands in the sheets.

“Come here,” Cas tells him.

Is Cas having an angel seizure or something? Dean doesn’t look at him. “I’m _right here_ ,” he snaps, and curls tighter into himself.

Cas’s hand catches his shoulder; he rolls Dean onto his back with a tug. It’s not hard—it’s not a shove, and Dean doesn’t fight it—but he’s still blinking to find a naked little angel guy rolled on top of him. Cas is braced, but heavy in that way that makes Dean so aware that he’s real—he’s real, he’s here. He Fell, and he’s left, but he’s come back, too.

Okay.

When he looks up, though, Cas isn’t trying to stare into his soul. He’s looking at the hand he has resting on Dean, cat-eyed in the dark. He moves his fingers, carefully, settling them in a cup over the ball of Dean’s shoulder, and Dean realizes an instant later what he’s looking at.

“Dean… the first time I touched you, I branded the print of my hand into your skin,” Castiel says, softly. “I saw you shining in Hell, and I think even then I loved you a little bit—even though I didn’t know what that meant, not yet. And the first contact you had with me—my very first chance to show you that you were worthy and bright and _saved_ —and I burned you deeply enough that it scarred your flesh.”

“And you didn’t even make me breakfast in the morning,” Dean jokes, because he has to—because the ache in Cas’s voice is hard to hear. It’s not like he doesn’t know Cas has regrets. God only knows, they all have ‘em—so damned many. But that he put a scar or two on Dean? Shit, on the scale of ‘crappy’ that’s almost a ‘whatever.’

“I fled.” Cas shrugs, jerky; Dean feels it along his whole body. “I was… ashamed.” He looks up, and Dean can’t look away from his eyes—he never could. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Cas is fucking gorgeous, or even the sincerity and the sadness he can see there. Cas’s thumb moves, stroking the crease between Dean’s shoulder and his arm. “It was a terrible thing I did. But, do you know? Sometimes, I wish I could still see it on you.”

Oh.

“You see?” Cas settles firmer down on top of him—surrounding him, even though Cas is, at least in this form, smaller. “Sometimes things _are_ terrible. They’re awful. We’ve both done… so much that we regret. But, I think… I hope? I hope we can bring good out of them. Sometimes, at least.” His hand pets, slow and callused, up and down that sensitive, soft crease. “Sometimes it's good to remember.”

“Oh, is that your way of justifying that you’re a possessive sonofabitch?” Dean asks, but he’s smiling. For the first time today, he’s smiling. Something deeper than he’ll ever wear his skin, deeper than his broken bits, tingles under Cas’s hand.

Cas growls and bites his ear.

But they’re both smiling when they settle back in, and by the time Cas heaves a soft sigh and kisses the back of his neck again, Dean’s asleep, their clean, bloodless, burnless fingers tangled together under the sheets.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies that these short Promptober 'fics are probably going to be cluttering things up for a bit... I wanted to avoid that by putting them all in one story file originally, but then realized that the tags could eventually get overwhelming!
> 
> If you're so inclined to share in the madness, come join us in the [Profound Bond Discord Server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond).


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